


before those hands pulled me from the earth

by immortalvale



Series: and so i fall in love just a little ol' little bit [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), M/M, South Park: The Fractured But Whole, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22250638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immortalvale/pseuds/immortalvale
Summary: i will not ask you where you came fromi will not ask you, neither should you.
Relationships: Mysterion/Doctor Timothy, Timmy Burch/Kenny McCormick
Series: and so i fall in love just a little ol' little bit [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617454
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	before those hands pulled me from the earth

**Author's Note:**

> title and summary taken from “like real people do” by hozier. happy early birthday to myself!

**pallor.**

Timothy used to deny half of the events in South Park when he was a child; pretending they were only dreams and rumors spun by a young imagination. As a teenager, he kept a journal; lists of death and the thoughts of others. Disasters loomed over them like fever dreams a stoner had while watching the news. It wasn’t to say he wasn’t _scared—_ his sense of fear grew with age—but he had… things that took priority over fear. His test scores, not having enough money to pay off his band fees, waking in the middle of the night to second-hand tear tracks: these were more important than a robot breaking the roof of their classroom, or Cthulhu seeking to destroy Justin Beiber fans. Only few abnormalities in their town could keep his attention beyond a scribble in his journal past midnight. His town was hysterical, sure, but like most feelings it faded to a brief moment of remembrance, and his life had remained still.

Repetition was harder for him then singular events.

Kenny was a constant. Even as he was—discovered not a moment prior, skin rapidly paling and his breath slowing as Timothy lowered himself to the ground—he remained abnormal, written across his journal pages with a devotion held for a higher being; all-consuming and studied.

He had turned fourteen when he discovered him, when the Freedom Pals had reunited and missions turned violent quicker then they knew how to handle. The spots in his memory not connecting until he caught sight of a bloodied body, horrified remembrance of the parka he borrowed flooding alongside memories he had blocked.

_It had been his fourth time. Mysterion lying alone, riddled with bullet holes and flinching when Timothy had flashed close to him._

_“D-Don’t—” Mysterion had. His eyes were clouded, dulled and looking to the side of his chair. “No hospitals. Just let me die Doctor, I’ll tell you my progress report tomorrow—I’ll come back as good as new—”_

_Mysterion held his attention with the blood that pooled under his wheels; his pants soaked as he pulled him to rest against his chest, the wild thump of his heart pressed against his head as Timothy used his powers to let him rest without pain._

It’s the paleness that Timothy remembered, that next day, his hand compelled to curl around Mysterion’s.

**algor.**

Mysterion’s leg is thrown over window sill; Timothy’s had it secured, or whatever passed as security for South Park, ever since the Handicar incident but Mysterion knew how to break into. This makes Timothy suspicious. It was twelve degrees outside, first and foremost, and he lived on the outskirts of town—far away from the others, and therefore unvisited except somewhere to hide. The breeze rakes goosebumps down his arms as Mysterion pulls himself inside, window shutting with a resounding click.

“Mysterion reporting for duty, sir.”

Timothy doesn’t look up until Mysterion has spoken. Mysterion doesn’t take orders the same way he doesn’t leave his home without a weapon or react to jokes made at his expense—he doesn’t, and is vocal about how he doesn’t, but only when he isn’t comfortable. Timothy has dealt with disobedient subordinates and Mysterion is like them, in the sense that he only listens to himself, but he’s also _not_ like them in how he only needs a moment to prepare his facade, how he’ll let Timothy order him as long as he breaks the silence.

 _(‘Are you aware it’s currently twelve degrees outside?’)_ Mysterion’s suit is covered in dark wet patches and specks of white, which is why Timothy is concerned, and why there’s an underlying insistence in his words. It’s dark outside and Mysterion’s standing military straight in his bedroom, hiding small shivers and Timothy is suddenly stuck with an epiphany, has to force an apathetic attitude, when he’s heavy with a sudden protectiveness Mysterion has always displayed around him. It’s almost familiar but his own feelings, not second-hand.

“Crime never waits, Doctor.” He grunts. Timothy can see the clatter of his teeth.

 _(‘I have no current missions for you,’)_ There’s an urgent mantra of **_safety safety safety_ ** that radiates from his mind. _(‘however, I require protection.’)_

Mysterion’s walls are built like an abandoned building—sharp lines that asked for trouble, barbed wire that stuck out of electric fence. Timothy has noticed through careful observation Mysterion has no idea how to process individuality as a thought, let alone as a lifestyle. He’s so used to the idea of being used as a companion when he has needs, aching and starkly human and _necessary_ , he’s unable to process them unless taking care of another person.

Timothy clicks his tongue, beginning to type again on his laptop.

_(‘I have clothes in my closet that will fit you, take a shower and change.’)_

“Doctor—”

_(‘It’s an order, Mysterion.’)_

A flutter in his chest, an embarrassed stillness, is in direct response to the shock he feels. There’s an apology on the tip of his tongue, mixing with the emotions that piled in the pit of his stomach, before Mysterion moves with a sense of purpose that releases the tension in his shoulders.

It’s a trust that Timothy doesn’t know what to do with, undefined and unsteady and precious in the implication that Mysterion went to _him_ first. In Mysterion’s eyes Timothy feels… needed, which is a terrible realization, a flustering idea that he’s unsure of what to do with. Mysterion’s stalking out of his room and all he feels is an overwhelming possessiveness, a need to ensure that the other is kept safe and protected.

 _(‘The towels are in the hallway closet if you need them!’)_ Timothy eventually calls out after him.

There’s a grunt from the hallway. He thinks he finally understands why Mysterion can’t leave him alone.

**rigor.**

Since Timothy had gained control over his telepathy he doesn’t share dreams with anyone anymore—or, well, not directly, anyway. Not specific, hazy ones he used to have when his powers began to grow, the ones where he’d wake up with a distant sense of dread until he called Jimmy or practiced his breath exercises. The new dreams he has now are all specific, where missions went wrong and he was the only one left. There’s another where… he doesn’t want to think about it, because it terrifies him but also he’s already trying to keep his breathing steady.

The worst one, though, the one where he was having, where Mysterion never comes back—where after months and years he never returns and Karen was left alone and it wasn’t _his_ , even though he gained control it felt like his _own_ but it couldn’t have been—still ongoing in the back of his mind.

He wakes up and automatically registers where he is. He’s laying on the couch before he creeps to his room. There’s so much _worse_ he could be fearing, staring at Mysterion’s shadow withering and scurrying around the room as he laid rigid. It doesn’t feel real and he needs to ensure Mys— _Kenny_ is okay and doesn’t even realize until Kenny is staring back at him that he’d been shaking him awake.

“Do—”

_(‘—Just Timmy. I… I was cold and wanted to—I mean—I’m worried for your safety and I’m near close to breaking down and you don’t trust me enough but could I stay? In the bed? Your nightmare woke me up and I promise I won’t harm you but…’)_

Timmy took a deep breath. Kenny is wide-eyed, unmoving and _cold_ where Timmy’s hand is clamped around his shoulder.

_(‘...This is stupid. I… I’m sorry for waking you, I know you don’t sleep well from your naps during our meetings and I don’t know **why** I woke you but...’) _

“Stay.” Timmy doesn’t know whether to panic or shout his name because it’s probably after midnight and Kenny just—Kenny’s just staring at him, openly shocked and already shifting himself over in short, jerky movements and—

_(‘I’ll… plug in my chair.’)_

And Kenny just gives an awkward smile and Timmy scrambles to plug his wheelchair in before he’s lying down facing the door, pressed against Kenny’s back for a moment before he’s turning over and pulling the other against him. He’s _real and breathing_ and he hasn’t felt so panicked over a shared dream since he was eleven but he’s mumbling Kenny’s name and taking controlled breathes.

He only relaxes when Kenny is warm and soft in his arms.

**livor.**

Kenny has spent an hour checking and disinfecting and wrapping and Timmy has spent it all focusing on anything but the tension in the room. He’s counted at least twenty different medical objects pulled out of Tupperware’s medical kit, and his heart is beating at the same tempo as Kenny’s and there’s a feeling of a _bond_ , a stronger connection that seeped into his mind and forced him to feel emotions that he hadn’t been able to feel from others for _years_.

The slight privacy afforded by his work space only separated them from the outside world through a curtain and _god_ how he wished he changed them. He’s going to be yelled at in his fourth grade “office” and he’s covered in bandages. The remaining adrenaline in his system is keeping him from breaking down. 

“You had no right to— _GOD—_ what were you thinking? You could have been hurt!” Kenny spat, tugging almost too tight at the remaining bandage. It’s a distant pain.

Without his mask Kenny’s cheeks are flushed and for a moment Timmy is afraid he’ll do something drastic—tear off a poster and throw a chair—and his eyes close so he doesn’t have to see the damage and—

There’s a soft pressure against his forehead. He feels coldness wrap itself around him, stroking his back and taking care not to touch his binder or bandages. His heart beats in time with Kenny, and he opens his eyes to catch a softness that he rarely saw directed towards him.

“You’re the _only_ person who remembers.”

He’s still. There’s a hand on his cheek and a hand pressed against the table for stability and _something_ stroking his back and he sighs. He gently pries Kenny’s hand from his cheek and presses his lips against the back of it before he gives it a squeeze.

Timmy decides he wants to remember. He wants to—he wants to remember _everything_ . He wants to remember Kenny’s favorite movie and his favorite color, how he plays video games and his eating habits and _oh_ , he hasn’t felt this devoted since he was young. Kenny is a constant and won’t ever stop being one, and he presses a finger against his temple and lets him _feel_ the overwhelming feeling in his chest.

“Oh,” Kenny says, and there’s still a flush to his cheeks and Timmy smiles, softly, and squeezes his hand again.


End file.
